Diaries are private for a reason
by cretivename000
Summary: After Ginny casts his diary aside, Voldemort doesn't expect anyone else to pick it up, much less Harry Potter himself. What the boy does in those pages, though, surprises him even more. Voldemort thought he was done with crushes and school drama, but Harry Potter is always able to surprise him. Slight Drarry.


**Disclaimer: pretty obvious, but I don't own Harry Potter. **

**I honestly don't know where this came from. Enjoy! **

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It was dark all around him. He couldn't see, but he could feel. He could feel the emptiness of the space around him, the slightly damp air, the coolness of it all. It matched the darkness of his surroundings.

He would have gone insane, if not for his goal. He had a driving ambition, one of rebirth and revival. His body was dead, but his will and soul were unfaltering.

Time passed, and the only thing he could track it with was through the air-headed diary entries of the youngest Weasley girl.

She wrote about the most inconsequential things, unimportant to the point of laughable, but she spoke of them with such great passion that one might think these tiny things meant the world to her.

They would probably be right.

It was all to accomplish his goal, though, so he would endure.

Day after day, he listened to her ramblings, laughing to himself but replying like he was her closest friend. She knew him as Tom Riddle, and nothing more. There were no connections from this name to the terrifying Dark Lord, no fear at the prospect of writing to someone so powerful that no one dared to so much as whisper his name.

After her discovery of his existence, the Weasley girl was elated to have someone who she could talk to without fear. He understood her, she felt, and they bonded. The girl poured her soul out to him.

That was when things began to fall together.

The Chamber of Secrets was opened by her hand, the roosters were strangled, the basilisk freed, people petrified or killed, fear spread like wildfire—

Then, he was cast aside in fear.

He no longer heard from the girl, but he was not disappointed. He knew this moment would one day come.

But, it mattered not. It was already too late.

He did not expect anyone to write to him afterwards. He would float in the darkness, unseeing but not unfeeling.

Then, suddenly, he saw words. They drew out excitement from the depths of his soul, and he began to feel alive.

_My name is is Harry Potter._

The words were written across his vision, in stark contrast to the darkness that always surrounded him.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

_At last_, Voldemort thought, and grinned.

Before he could reply, though, lines began to appear.

They were light and airy, sketch-like, almost as if the boy possessing his diary was drawing in it.

They were slow and reluctant at first, starting in one place and tracing over itself continuously, like the boy didn't know how to begin.

Voldemort did nothing, intrigued. The girl had only ever written in his diary. _These sketches may allow me to see deeper into the dark corners of Harry Potter's soul_, he thought, and he shivered in anticipation at the thought. Being able to control the Boy Who Lived though dark magic would leave him at his mercy. He would have no choice but to do his bidding!

He watched as the lines began to acquire definition. The strokes became more sure and steadfast. The lines danced, twirling and crossing without guides, free to go wherever they desired.

The boy had skill, he had to admit.

Despite this, Voldemort had trouble seeing where the picture was going. He could make out two round shapes. Balls, possibly.

They were set close enough to be nearly touching. The shapes, however, were too irregular to be balls. Too long and too angular.

He watched in silence for some time, and the balls began to show detail. He realized that the shapes weren't balls at all; they were human heads, set intimately close to one another.

It was difficult to tell what gender or age the people depicted were, but their jawlines weren't overly defined, and the cheeks of one were just slightly rounder than the other, both complexions indicating youth.

He watched as the boy added facial features. Eyes, noses, mouths. The foreheads were touching, and each set of eyes were staring deeply and passionately into the other's.

Voldemort had a sinking feeling. He began to realize what Harry Potter was drawing. He would never have thought that the Boy Who Lived had _this_ kind of side to him.

Nevertheless, he watched, fascinated at the creation of life before him, and more than a little curious as to what the finished product would look like.

Even more detail was added: ears, eyebrows, eyelashes. Hair. On top of one head sat an unimaginably unruly mess, untamed and wild, shaded to look darker than the other's, whose unshaded, glossy locks were impeccably made and styled to stay in place.

The cheeks of both were colored darkly. Round glasses appeared, perched on the nose of the dark-haired boy, slightly askew.

Lips were drawn on, lightly shaded and slightly puckered. A finishing line was drawn between the heads, connecting them by a string and completing the picture.

The drawing became clear in front of him.

There were two people, both young, both male. Their foreheads were pressed close together, eyes staring into each other's intensely. Their cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, and between them was a single strand of saliva, connecting them.

Voldemort's mind raced. The lighter-haired boy looked familiar to him, like he had definitely seen him before, somewhere. He raced through his memories, calling forth and discarding people at a rapid pace. Finally, he matched up the face to a name.

Astonishment didn't even begin to describe what he felt in that moment.

The boy in the drawing was the son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, two of his Death Eaters.

And the other one was...strikingly familiar. He _knew_ the dark-haired boy; everyone knew dark-haired boy. He was the only known person in history to survive the most deadly of the three forbidden curses, the killing curse.

At the lack of attention, the picture before him was beginning to fade, and with a sense of finality, a jagged line was placed on the forehead of the dark-haired boy, the same dark-haired boy from the other end of the diary's connection.

A lightning scar.

Voldemort looked at the finished picture once more, memorizing every part of it, cramming every last detail he could into his weakened mind.

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.

The image was seared into his mind forever. He did not forget it, nor did he wish to forget it.

He watched as the two boys grew into men over the long years of battles and war, and when he finally fell at Harry's feet at the Battle of Hogwarts five years later, he entrusted Harry Potter with his dying wish:

"You and Draco Malfoy _must_ get together."


End file.
